DISCLAIMER: I don't know who owns FK and the associated characters, but
it certainly isn't me. This story *is* mine, however, and anyone who wants,
for whatever odd reasons, to reproduce it, is quite welcome, provided s/he
lets me know about it. There. I hope that covers it.
[M/F story,graphic sex. Written by Wayward]
["Die of a rose in aromatic pain?" Pope, "An Essay on Man"]
"To Die of a Rose"
"Don't fight me," he whispered harshly. "Don't you dare to fight me."
The candles fluttered, throwing confused shadows against the dark carpet.
She held perfectly, her pulse hesitating in her veins, waiting for a chance
to move against him. He moved through the darkened rooms with lethal grace.
Looking for prey.
Looking for her.
Natalie crouched behind the divan, watching him. *LaCroix*, she murmured
silently. *Not long now.* She could just see him, beautiful in the
half-light. He could not truly control her mind with his; nor could he find
her so easily as he might a regular human.
"Natalie...." he whispered. "We can end this now, you know. Easily." She
almost felt his smile on her skin, his hunger filling the room.
*A little longer*, she promised herself. *Just be patient.* She tightened
her grip on the sharpened stake in her hand.
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The week had started badly, anyway. She and Nick were on the outs. Again.
Yet another attempt at humanity had failed.
"I just need some time alone," he had said, weary and defeated. Nat hadn't
had the heart, or the energy, to argue with him; but watching him slouch out
of her office had been incredibly frustrating.
The next night, she found that Nick had taken a long-overdue vacation. She
learned it not from Nick himself, not even from his partner or the Captain,
but by overhearing two other homicide detectives joking about how unusual
his departure was.
"She must *really* be something," one of them laughed.
Thinking that Nick might have taken leave to be with another woman
(*Janette?* her suspicious brain asked. *Could he be with her?*) added to
her frustration. For the next two days, Nat sulked her way around the
morgue, her pride keeping her from asking anyone how long Nick would be gone.
Arriving home the third night, she found a cluster of tiny white roses bound
to her doorknob with white silk cord. She removed them carefully, but still
one delicate thorn drew blood. No card was attached.
The next night, a pair of white roses, twined around a scalpel, was waiting
for her on her desk. No card; and no-one had seen who had left it.
For the next three days, white roses followed her around Toronto: A bouquet
in her car, leaning on the steering wheel; a wreath of roses and ivy, draped
on her work computer; and a single rose, wound with narrow white ribbon,
lying across the table where she ate her evening meal.
"This is too weird," Natalie murmured to herself, walking to her car after
the arrival of the bound rose. She loosened her hair from its usual neat
tail, and pulled her keys from her pocket as she crossed the parking lot.
A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. She focused on
it, and stopped in her tracks.
Tall, slim, dressed in black; razor-cut blond hair, blue eyes, impossibly
pale skin. LaCroix. He stood perfectly still; if he was breathing, she
couldn't see it. A faint smile curved the thin lips, as he watched her
watch him. Power poured from him in cold, cold waves.
"I see you received my latest offering," he remarked at last, the smile
vanishing, to be replaced with a preternatural solemnity. "Do you approve,
Dr Lambert? Or may I call you Natalie?"
She was utterly silent for several long moments. Without replying, she
dropped the rose to the asphalt and headed, with quick, sharp steps, to the
dubious safety of her car. She shoved her key into the lock, grabbed the
handle--
He was there, opening the door for her, still very polite. "Allow me,
please."
Keeping an eye on him, she slid into the driver's seat.
She was uncomfortably aware of the fact that her skirt was rather short, and
for the first time, wished she wore pants. He made no move toward her at all.
"Good night, Dr Lambert," he said easily. "I mean, *Natalie*."His voice
wrapped around her name, sliding like skin. She slammed the door, and he
stepped away. As she gunned the engine --*That's right, I'm tough, don't
you forget it*, she thought, a little hysterically-- he stood and watched her.
When she checked her rearview mirror, he was gone. Shaking, she pulled over
to the side of the road, leaning her head on the steering wheel until she
was certain she could drive again.
Once safely at her door, she fumbled with her keys, half expecting him to
appear. Nothing. She plunged through the door, slammed it, locked it, had
to restrain herself from shoving the couch up against it. *Don't be
stupid*, she lectured herself. *If he was going to do something, he'd have
done it by now, right? Right.*
Worn out suddenly, Natalie dropped her bag on the floor and made her way to
the bathroom. She took a shower, scrubbing her body, trying to get the cold
of him out of her bones. She even sang aloud, a few verses of "It's Only
Love", trying to drown out the sound of his voice. Finally, she emerged
from the shower, clean, but not reassured. She left her clothes lying on the
floor. *God, I'm tired.*
Exhausted, without bothering to dress again, barely managing to turn down
the bedspread, she collapsed. She sleepily noted the comforting feel of
soft cotton sheets against her skin, the slight scent of her own body, the
cool pillow beneath her cheek. She fell soundly, relievedly asleep.
--and jolted awake--
"No!" she gasped, terrified without knowing why. Coming fully awake, she
slapped her bedside lamp on.
White roses, rose petals, leaves, surrounded her. Their fragrance hung
drowsily in the air. They lay against her skin, on the sheets, everywhere.
Flowers tangled in her hair, white against mahogany. In the darker hair
between her legs, a stray leaf curled, and petals clung to her damp inner
thighs. Her nipples were erect, her breathing ragged in the silence.
"Who is it?" she asked at last, harshly.
Silence.
"LaCroix!" She waited a moment, then, "I know it's you."
"...good night.... Natalie...." His low, mocking voice was so close--
Horrified, she snatched the rose-heavy sheets to her body and lunged to the
window. On the street below-- was that a man in black? a shadow? She
couldn't tell.
Natalie sank to her knees on the floor. She had a feeling she wasn't going
to be able to sleep any time soon.
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Grace dropped a tray of sterilised instruments on the morgue floor. They
clashed together as they landed, the sound echoing from the sterile walls
and tile floor.
"Damn," she muttered, turning to face her friend. "Natalie, sorry, I'll
have to get--" She broke off abruptly. Lambert's face was white to the
lips; her back was pressed flat to the wall beside her desk. Seeing Grace's
shock, she summoned up a patently false smile.
"Guess I should switch to decaf, huh?" she joked feebly.
"Guess so," Grace agreed dryly. "Nat, what's going on with you? You've
been a nervous wreck for the past four days. You've got circles under your
eyes, you jump a foot at the least sound...."
"I'm just having one of those weeks," Nat hedged. "You know how it goes."
"Uh-huh." Grace stood with her arms folded, looking less than totally
convinced.
Natalie shoved her hand backwards through her unruly hair. "It's just, you
know, just--" She stopped, regrouped her thoughts, tried again: "....a
cold?"
Grace sighed. "Why don't you go home, get some rest?" she suggested. I can
handle things; that's what I'm here for, remember?"
Lambert began to protest, then paused to think. *It's daylight, broad
daylight. I'd be safe. I could -sleep-!* The thought brought a rush of
relief so strong she almost burst into tears.
"God, Grace, that sounds wonderful." And, less than half an hour later, she
was home.
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Natalie slouched down into the hot bath, letting the water soothe her tense
muscles and jangled nerves. A gorgeously trashy romance novel lay ready on
the floor next to a giant cup of honey-laced jasmine tea and a box of
chocolate truffles she had bought in a moment of self-indulgence some weeks
ago. *Bliss!* she decided. LaCroix and Nick receded from her conscious
mind, and her generally insane life seemed much more appealing. She settled
her bath pillow behind her neck, grabbed the novel, and began reading where
she'd left off nearly a month earlier.
Somehow, the lyrical, dramatic, euphemistic description of the lead
characters' sex acts didn't interest her, or even amuse her. The words, the
feelings, the actions described all seemed, well, *tame*. The dashing hero
was tedious, the delicate heroine was not only anorectic-sounding-- *For
goodness' sake, why do they always make idiotic references to her "tiny
waist"??*-- but spiritless. Disgusted, she set it aside. *I'll try it
again when I'm in a better mood*, she decided.
Three truffles and half a cup of tea later, her mood was improved, although
she still felt rather restless. She arched her back slightly, stretching
the sore tendons and muscles. Her nipples hardened in the cool air, and she
sank back down into the freesia-scented water. Sipping her tea, she closed
her eyes.
*Wouldn't it be nice to have someone in here with you?* she asked herself.
*Yes, it would...*
"I'm pleased to hear you say so," replied a horribly familiar voice. Nat's
eyes snapped open.
LaCroix knelt in the bath between her legs, smiling. Water beaded his pale
skin like crystals on satin. He leaned forward, almost touching her, and
lifted a sponge in his aristocratic hand. "Shall I wash your back?"
"JESUS BLOODY CHRIST." Natalie lunged out of the bath, past him, heading
for the door, heart pounding in terror, *oh no oh no oh no*--
--and she was in the tub. Alone.
Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. *A dream-- a hallucination-- he's
playing with my head*, she realised.
Lambert eased herself out of the water, drying herself mechanically,
chocolate, tea, and bath forgotten. Gradually, her fear turned to anger.
"That sonovabitch," she said aloud. *How -dare- he invade me like that??
I'd -kill- him, if it wouldn't be redundant.*
The question now was, what was she going to do? *He'll come to me again, to
gloat, I'm sure. I'll just have to be ready.* Nat pulled on a robe and
slippers and sat at her desk to make up a list. She had some shopping to do.
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Natalie Lambert adjusted the contents of her bag fussily, more than a little
self-satisfied. *Nick isn't the only one who's had some time off coming*,
she thought smugly. Even if nothing else got done, she'd have a pleasant
time vacation.
The leather backpack contained a spray bottle of holy water; two full heads
of garlic, the cloves strung on a strong cord; two rosaries, and three
stakes, obtained from a garden-supply store. She wasn't sure if the garlic,
water, or rosaries would have any effect on a vampire like LaCroix, but she
always had believed in overkill. She also wasn't sure if she'd be able to
actually use the stakes; but at least she had them. *And, if I *do* have to
use one, even if it doesn't actually kill him, it'll definitely mess up his
day.* She readjusted the stakes, placing two on top of the other supplies,
and tucked the third in one of the pack's outer pockets.
She surveyed her personal appearance in the full-length mirror. *Linda
Hamilton, eat your heart out!* She wore a sleeveless black spandex top, a
pair of loose camouflage pants, and neat, black leather combat boots,
purchased that same day at a Goodwill store. She tucked a pair of mirror-
lensed sunglasses into a pants pocket and posed. *Wow. Wonder if I can get
an Uzi somewhere? No, better not-- but maybe a Harley?* Grabbing her
trenchcoat, her backpack, and an overnight bag (flowered tapestry, not going
too well with the rest of her ensemble, but, oh, well), she thumped down the
stairs.
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Grinning to herself, Natalie Lambert, professional woman, respected coroner,
straddled a shining creation of chrome, a beautiful motorcycle, a modern-day
destrier. She was headed north-- *I have got to find some way of thanking
Rob and Marian for lending me their cabin,* she decided. *That is, when I'm
a good girl again.*
A red convertible full of college-age men pulled up beside her, waving and
shouting. She tossed her head, arched her back, waved, and gunned the motor
of the bike, leaving them behind. In her mirror, she could see them, still
waving and yelling.
*I could get used to this.*
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Dark fell. In a quiet place, Lucien LaCroix woke. He knew immediately she
was gone. *So, she's feeling a little crowded?* He smiled. *Poor dear. I
wouldn't want her to be lonely. I'd best go find her. After all, someone's
got to protect her, with Nicholas away.=20
He dressed quickly, negligently, moved to the open window. With one swift
step, he was in the wind, and gone.
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Natalie looked around the cabin's living room with approval. If she
achieved nothing else, at least she would enjoy her vacation. He might not
even bother to come after her; at least, she hoped so. At least, she sort
of hoped so. Sort of. *Maybe you're tired of waiting*, her brain
suggested. *Maybe you're sick of dreaming. Maybe it's a little cold reality
you're craving.*
She shook her head impatiently, dismissing the thought. She moved to the
small portable radio on the table, and turned it on, searching for the
Nightcrawler. Would he be there?
He was.
He was reading something she didn't recognise:
"Never believe I leave you
"From any desire to go....
"After a whole day of separation
"Still your dark fragrance clings to my skin....
"Do you know that we both conceal our love
"Because of prior sorrow, superstitious fear?"
"That's Carolyn Kizer, children," the Nightcrawler's voice echoed. "And
that's all for tonight. Sleep well, my friends. The sweetest of sweet
dreams to you... Natalie."
She turned the radio off with a violence that surprised her.
Yes.
He would follow her.
/////-----/////-----/////-----/////-----/////-----/////-----/////
Candles burned in holders all over the cabin. Most of them were of the
plain, economical wax variety; a few were scented, freesia, vanilla,
cinnamon. *No* rose-scented. She had had quite enough of that fragrance
for a while.
Having slept late, had a good breakfast, and an active day of hiking and
working, Natalie Lambert was feeling pretty good.
During her hike, she had seen a gorgeous pool nestled in the bend of the
river. *Shame I didn't think to bring a bathing suit. On the other hand, I
-am- spending this vacation being irresponsible....* She smiled wickedly.
*Well, I'll think about it.*
She had spent the afternoon cutting firewood, enough to last at least two or
three days, and been inside well before dark. A long, cool shower sluiced
away the dirt and sweat. She glanced out the window wistfully at the
shining Harley. *Noooo.... it's too late for a ride. Tomorrow, though, you
ought to go into town and pick up some supplies.* She had not listened to
the radio since hearing him reading poetry last night.
Nat settled down on the couch with a mug of cocoa and the same romance book
she had failed to finish before. The story had a better grip on her
attention, now. Too strong a grip, in fact; she could feel her temperature
rising. *A swim would be nice....* She flashed suddenly on LaCroix
appearing out of the water and shuddered. Then she sat up straight.
"Dummy. Listen to the radio, see if he's on. If he is, you're safe."
She promptly switched the radio on, checking her watch. About fifteen
minutes until he was supposed to come on. She grinned as the program began.
"Good evening, children. Welcome to the Nightwatch...."
Without giving herself time to think, she grabbed a towel, a lighter, and a
few candles. She also snatched up the radio. *After all, music -would- be
nice.* She tossed the things in a straw shopping bag, along with a first
aid kit, a bottle of juice, and a pair of shower thongss, picked up her
heavy-duty flashlight, and set out into the night.
Natalie laughed softly to herself, exhilaration surging through her, making
her light-headed. She replaced her hiking boots with the thongs-- *No
sense in stepping on something and ending up in an emergency room getting my
foot stitched up.*- and set her bag within easy reach.
She pulled off her T-shirt and jeans quickly, but hesitated over her
underthings. "What the hell?" she said aloud, and tossed them aside, too.
Hurriedly, before giving herself time to change her mind, Nat plunged into
the water.
"Wow!" she gasped, resurfacing. "That's *cold*!" But nice, she decided, as
the cool water moved over her.
"Let's see... maybe a little light?" Natalie pulled out a taper candle
from her bag and lit it. The little flame shed a warm glow over her pale
skin and dark hair. It created a circle of light around her, isolating her
from the unpleasantness of the outside world. Idly, she clicked the radio
on. Instantly, the Nightcrawler's voice filled the air. He was reading
poetry again.
"The art of losing isn't hard to master;
"so many things seem filled with the intent
"to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
"Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
"of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
"The art of losing isn't hard to master...."
"--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
"I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
"the art of losing isn't hard to master
"though it may seem like (*Write* it!) like disaster."
Natalie shifted uneasily. Somehow, he was able to dispel her tranquillity.
*I should turn him off.* She didn't.
"Tell me," the Nightcrawler went on, "how many of us have lost something we
learned to value too late? Most of us, I'm sure. It's" and she felt she
was the only one to hear the irony in his voice "only human."
As he spoke, her restlessness grew. Absently, she withdrew a second candle
from her bag, lit it. Pulled out a third, drew it through her fingers
slowly.
"Here's the real question: How many things, people, that have been lost
know they are valued in their loss? All? Some?
"None?"
She moved, turning slowly in the water, intending to turn him off. The hand
holding the candle slipped beneath the water, resting on her thigh.
"It's so easy, letting go, isn't it, my friends? So easy."
The broad base of the candle somehow found its way between her legs, nudging
her clitoris. =20
"Strange, how we value so little what we have. We always want what isn't
ours, long for what we don't have."
With a sudden surge, the candle slid inside her. She gasped at the
abruptness of the intrusion. More slowly, she worked it in and out of her
willing body.
"When, ah, when will we learn to want what we have?"
Natalie imagined strong hands on her hips, pulling her, a warm mouth at her
breast. Deliberately, she imagined pale skin, blue eyes, short blond hair.
"LaCroix...."
"Yes, children, remember how it felt to lose what you had."
"I can have you," she managed, "but you... you can't have me..."
"...how it felt to want what you could not have...."
"You can't have me--"
"....how does it feel to remember?"
"--you *can't*--" More quickly, the moving, now.
"How does it feel?"
"But I can have you!" she cried, and came. Her muscles tensed, convulsing
around the candle. She pushed it deeper, came again. "I can have you."
"Remember me, children, if you want to remember what loss is like."
"....I have you...."
"Good-night, children. Sweet dreams. Good night, wherever you are....
Natalie."
"...LaCroix...."
Dead air.
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For several long moments, Natalie lay half-sprawled in the water, unable to
hold her head up. She yanked the candle roughly from her body, shoved it
back into the bag.
She dressed haphazardly, made her way back to the cabin, dragging the bag,
slipping and falling twice. By the time she was safely indoors again, she
was filthy and furious. Not at *him*, but at herself.
*Have you -totally- lost your mind?? He's a menace, he's the bloodsucking
-undead-, for God's sake! You've got a bagful of stakes and garlic just
waiting for him, and you go and-- and--" On the edge of tears, she forced
herself to stop.
"The worst part is, I liked it. I *loved* it," she admitted aloud.
Dazed and drained, she took another shower and crawled into bed, falling
asleep almost instantly. All around her, candles burned out, one by one.
If she dreamed, she didn't remember it.
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The wind smelled like autumn, all dying leaves and the promise of snow.
Standing on his balcony, savouring the remainder of the night, LaCroix
reviewed the night's work. He had felt her climax from his recording booth.
His eyes had turned yellow involuntarily. And, best of all, he hadn't had
to do anything. She had done it all, touched herself, reached out to him,
all of it, she had done it without any coercion from him. *She's probably
furious, right now.*
The wind whipped the hem of his dressing gown around his legs. *Soon.
Soon. Sleep well, Natalie.
*Nicholas.... She's almost mine.*
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Miles away, Nick Knight woke up with a start. He'd been dreaming...
something about Natalie? *Go back to sleep*, he scolded himself. *You'll
have plenty of explaining to do when you get back. She is -not- going to be
happy.*
He turned over and went back to sleep.
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Natalie was angry-- with herself, with LaCroix, even with Nick. *If he
hadn't taken off, I wouldn't be in this fix now. I'd've stayed right where
I belonged, hacking up cadavers*, she fumed as she washed her face the next
morning. Stomping out into the main room, she caught sight of the straw bag
she had carried the previous night and blushed a violent red.
For a moment, she almost packed all her things and headed back to Toronto.
Then, a glimpse of the Harley changed her mind, for what seemed the
hundredth time in an hour. Temptation battled safety; safety never had a
chance. In a matter of minutes, Natalie Lambert was back in her Terminatrix
outfit and on the bike, heading out for breakfast and groceries.
The inhabitants of the little town of Appleton did not appear to think
Natalie's appearance was even remotely strange, for which she was grateful,
if a bit disappointed. *I'd looked forward to shocking the locals*, she
realised guiltily. *I seem to have a bit of an exhibitionistic streak in
me....* Nick would be horrified.
"Fuck him," she muttered. It was none of his business what she did, or how
she did it, or how she dressed when she did what she did how she did it.
LaCroix would be delighted by such an attitude. She pushed *that* thought
out of her head, smiling politely at the cashier as she paid for her milk,
bread, and chocolate ice cream. Also a carton of fresh raspberries, just
because they were there.
*Maybe that's the problem*, she mused, as she cruised the streets of
Appleton. *Maybe I've been so busy behaving myself, the first time I get a
chance, I weird out. When I get home, I'll, I don't know, maybe start
smoking. Hang out in pool halls. Rent Clint Eastwood movies. =
-Something-.*
She spotted a restaurant on her left. The signboard out front promised
fresh seafood daily. *I'll have to check that out while I'm here.*
Natalie was getting a few curious glances, but no outright horror. *Guess
I'm not as whore-of-Babylon as I thought.*
As she leisurely turned onto the road that would take her back to the cabin,
Nat replayed the events of the previous night-- for the thousandth time.
*LaCroix. What'm I going to -do- about him??* Nervously, she checked the
inside pocket of her trench coat. The stake she had tucked in it was still
there.
What had possessed her to challenge him like that, even if it was imaginary?
Why had she fantasised about him at all? The day was lovely, cool and
bright, but entirely wasted on her. *What am I doing to do?* She saw a
diner ahead, and the rumbling in her stomach reminded her that she had not
yet eaten breakfast. She pulled into the parking lot, pleased despite her
dark mood at her handling of the big bike.
Sauntering into the diner, she pulled off her sunglasses and stuffed them
into her pocket. She seated herself at a booth, and a pleasant-looking
waitress walked over to hand her a menu.
"Get you something to drink, hon?" she asked. She was a middle-aged lady,
dark hair going grey naturally, no hideous dyes, no atrocious makeup, pink
uniform. Her nametag read "Allie."
"Um.... a glass of orange juice, please, thanks."
"Sure thing." Another smile, and Allie moved away.
Nat looked at the menu without reading it. She was seeing LaCroix as he had
appeared to her in her bath, naked and mesmerising, water droplets shining
in the dense hair on his chest....
"Ready, hon?" Allie broke into her reverie.
"Huh? Oh, yes, yeah, of course." Gathering herself, Natalie surveyed the
menu, too startled to make sense of what she was reading. "Is there a=
special?"
"Sure is-- two eggs, English muffin, bacon or sausage, and pancakes."
"Oooh, that sounds good. I'm planning to do a lot of hiking," she explained
sheepishly.
"Nice day for it," Allie smiled. "How do you want your eggs, hon?"
All things considered, Natalie enjoyed her breakfast thoroughly. She
concentrated on *not* thinking of LaCroix.
"Take care, now," Allie called, as she left. Nat raised her hand in a
friendly wave and smiled back.
During her drive home, she tried to keep her mind off of the vibrating bike,
pressed snugly between her legs.
=09
On the trails in back of the cabin, Natalie pushed herself to walk, and
walk, and walk, all the while keeping an eye on the sun. *Don't want to get
caught out here after dark.* She hiked until the muscles in her legs almost
went into spasm. She went out of her way to avoid the pool in the bend of
the river. In fact, by the time she got home, she'd managed to convince
herself that the whole candle episode was due to her overstressed nerves.
She didn't want LaCroix. No nope no way not at all.
Really.
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LaCroix stirred slightly, subliminally aware that it was late afternoon,
that it was not safe to stir out-of-doors just yet. He pulled himself out
of his deep sleep anyway. He had much to do. He had to shower, and find
something for dinner, and deliver his tape to WCERK. He smiled to himself.
Natalie was going to be so surprised to see him....
*That reminds me....*
He stretched one lazy arm out to pick up the telephone and dial a number.
"Midnight Angel Florist, Angela speaking."
"This is Lucas Cross."
The voice on the other end was perceptibly interested. "Hello, Mr. Cross.
So nice to hear from you again. How may we help you today?"
"I'd like a delivery of, oh, two dozen roses-- you know the kind I mean?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Cross."
"They'll need to be delivered quite a way, but I'm more than willing to pay
for the convenience."
"Yes, Mr. Cross."
A few more moments served to finalise the arrangements, and LaCroix was off
the phone. He crossed to the shower, pleased with the way the evening was
shaping up.
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At Midnight Angel, Angela stuck his head through the door leading to the
back room.
"Another order for His Majesty. Do you think he's--"
A dark-haired woman, up to her elbows in floral wire and ferns, glanced at
her friend impatiently. "It's none of our business, Ange."
"Aren't you even curious, Norah?"
A second look convinced him otherwise.
"Okay, okay. Forget I said anything."
Norah considered the situation for a moment after Angela had returned to the
cash register. *I hope he hasn't developed a taste for mortals. Things
could get ugly....* Ah, well. It would be someone else's headache, for
once, not hers, if he had.
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LaCroix stood on the roof of WCERK, inhaling the night air. *Beautiful.*
He turned his face north, feeling the rain in the air. "Perfect," he
murmured. "A dark and stormy night. I couldn't have planned it better."
*Natalie.* A few hours, and he'd be there. He was putting off his
departure, though, enjoying every moment of his little adventure. *I've
been getting too hide- bound, I've been stagnating. I need excitement, and
poor Nicholas simply isn't enough.* He wondered if he ought to visit
Janette before he left, tantalise her with hints of his plans for Dr
Lambert. *No.... I think I'll surprise her.*
The ancient vampire laughed aloud, and joined the nightwinds with one fluid
movement.
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Natalie tied the tarp down securely over the motorcycle, keeping an eye on
the clouds overhead as she did so. Thunderheads were piling up in the
northern sky, heavy and dark. A cold wind blew over her skin, and she
shivered. *This is going to be a good night to stay in*, she decided.
*Make some tea, eat some ice cream, read for a while....* Thunder growled
in the distance as she pulled the last of the knots tight.
Once inside, she stationed herself on the couch with a soft, fuzzy blanket,
a pot of cinnamon tea, every pillow she could scrounge up, and a stack of
books and magazines. She settled her robe around her comfortably, pulled
her feet up beneath her, and relaxed. In moments, she was deep into an
article entitled "Ten Ways to Hypnotise Him." Absently, she noticed it had
begun to rain, and quite hard. The bad weather added to her overall feeling
of contentment.
Several hours, and quite a few magazines, later, Natalie realised her neck
was stiff. A quick check showed her that her tea was cold, too. *Hmmmm...
well, I may as well open the ice cream.* Happily aware of the silliness
involved in eating ice cream right before bed-- all that sugar! all that
fat!-- she took the gallon of Chocolate Rapture from the freezer. *Let's
see. Do I need a bowl? or just a spoon?*
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In the darkness, LaCroix stood outside. He was wet, and rather chilled.
*Well, you'll be warm enough very soon*, he reminded himself. Silently, he
approached the cabin.
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A noise at the door caught Nat's attention.
"Natalie? Natalie, are you there? Help me, please...." the voice died
away.
*Who would--? Who knew--? Nick!* Without pausing another moment-- Nick
needed her!-- she flung the door open.
"Hurry, come in, it's pouring," she said, worried.
A black-clad figure staggered in, braced himself against the wall.
She hurried to the couch, tossed the blanket to him. "Wrap up in this, I'll
make you some tea, something hot."
*How did he find me? Can I tell him about the candle incident? No, better
not.* Natalie turned the stove on, and set the kettle on to boil. Mind
whirling with confusion, she turned back towards him.
"Hello, Natalie," said LaCroix. He was neatly folding the blanket she had
thrown to him. "Thank you for making me feel so welcome." His smile was
altogether too knowing.
"You're not Nick," she blurted out.
He considered for a moment. "No. No, I'm not. I'm better."
Natalie stared, too dazed to retort, at the rain-soaked figure. He briskly
removed his long coat (black, of course) and hung it on a peg beside the
door. He wore nothing beneath it save a loose pair of black pants. The
cold night, the stinging rain, the fierce wind-- none of it had been enough
to bring colour to his marble-white skin.
*I don't believe it*, she thought. *I get relaxed, and there he is. Talk
about deja vu. Hell, talk about -irritating-!*
"I'm sorry about dripping on your floor," he said rather mundanely, "but
I'm afraid it can't be helped." He paused a moment before continuing.
"Although I suppose I could undress, if you like."
"No, thanks, that's all right." Lambert's voice was flat. Now that she was
over the original shock, she was actually quite calm. "You'll forgive me,
though, if I don't offer you anything to drink."
"You will." He smiled appreciatively. "You know, I do like that colour on
you."
Her attention was diverted momentarily to the dove-grey robe, but a moment
was quite enough time for the vampire. In the next moment, he was across
the room, reaching for her.
As it turned out, a moment was enough time for Natalie, too. *Of all the
times to -not- have those damn stakes ready--!* She grabbed the first thing
that came to hand and flung it at LaCroix.
The first thing that came to hand happened to be the gallon of frozen-solid
ice cream she had not had the chance to open. It struck LaCroix squarely in
the chest, throwing off his timing. He staggered, Natalie bolted.
*Grab the stakes! No, just run!* She did not hesitate in her flight to
debate her options, although it might've been a good idea. His hand grazed
her shoulder, one bare foot hit a puddle of water, she slipped, and fell
backward, her head connecting with the floor with a dull crack.
Silence.
LaCroix regarded her limp form. He hadn't planned on something like this.
His plans were disrupted, and he felt rather badly-used. *She wasn't
supposed to run! Well, this isn't the time for recriminations. How on
earth does one act in such situations? Oh, yes. Now I remember. And
Nicholas says that television is a waste of time.* He checked her pulse;
steady. He began to cautiously peel back an eyelid, but she moaned and
turned her head. *There. She'll be fine. I think.*
Dismissing any lingering worry, he looked around, saw a tapestry bag. A
quick inspection revealed a change of underclothes, some toiletries, and he
discarded it. *She won't need anything like that.*
He also spotted a trenchcoat, in which he wrapped her securely. Leaving his
own coat behind, he stepped out into the darkness and rain, and took to the
air, Natalie Lambert folded next to his chest.
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She wakes up, half-way. There is no ground beneath her feet, nothing but
the rushing of wind. She's surrounded by darkness. It's so cold she can
barely feel her fingers, and the only part of her body not icy is a burning,
pounding spot on her head. Her cheek is pressed against-- what? something
soft, something hard.... She is moving, she thinks hazily, even the memory
of fear not enough to penetrate the fog of weariness and pain. She is
restrained by-- by what? She can't tell. She would think of human arms,
but no human is so strong, and would not explain the sensation of wind, and
is that rain? yes, needles of rain. She falls.
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The second time, Natalie woke up all the way. It was not completely dark--
dim light shone from a small lamp-- and she was blessedly warm. The
stabbing pain at the back of her head had receded to a dull ache. She
turned over onto her side, and almost lost her balance. The surface she was
lying on was warm, all right, but it was also unstable. It took her abused
brain another few seconds to assimiliate the information and make its
report. *You're on a waterbed, dummy*, she informed herself. A second
report came in from the front. *You're on a waterbed, -naked-, dummy.
You're on a waterbed, naked, with Tall-Blond-and-Ominous lurking somewhere.*
That realisation was enough to not only get her moving, but also dissolve
her lingering headache. It took more than a few minutes, though surely not
the hours it felt like, for her to reach the edge of the bed, yank off the
wine-coloured top sheet, and wrap it around her, toga-style. She started to
take a survey of the room, seeking a possible exit, or at least a weapon,
when he spoke from behind her.
"Hello, Natalie. Did you rest well? How is your head?" He wore a long,
black robe of what looked like silk.
*This is getting ridiculous*, she decided.
"I'm fine," she replied at last, "and I'm leaving."
"No, you're not," he contradicted calmly.
"Yes, I am."
"Are you always so rude?"
"Rude?? You threaten me, invade my home, kidnap me--"
"I sent you many gifts of lovely flowers-- not so lovely as you, though, my
heart-- paid a call on you in your lovely vacation spot, and picked you up
after you had a nasty fall. Would you have preferred it if I'd just left
you lying there?" His tone was the essence of reason.
"Yes, I would have," she answered, clutching the sheet closer to her.
"I'm wounded, Natalie, truly," he said, shaking his head in pretended=
dismay.
"Let me out of here!" she demanded. Wrong tactic. Abruptly, his mood,
which had been amusement, changed.
He crossed the room with swift, precise grace, his robe billowing around
him. In between one beat of her heart and the next, he had her on the bed,
on her back, beneath him. Her sheet was tangled around her legs, now a
hindrance. He easily pinned Natalie's wrists above her head with his hand,
anchoring her legs with his.
"Let-- get off-- LaCroix, let go of-- dammit, I mean it, let go!"
"I'm sure you mean it, beauty, but my given name is Lucien." He paused
expectantly.
"Let go, dammit!"
" 'Let go, Lucien. Please.' " He corrected her, smugly.
"Bastard!"
"That's a little closer," he allowed, "but not quite close enough."
"Let. Go. Lucien," she ground out.
" 'Please'," he prompted.
She clamped her mouth shut mulishly. He had a sudden vision of her, naked,
on a bed of white roses, legs parted....
A sudden wicked impulse overcame him. "Say the whole thing," he chided her,
his lips grazing hers. " 'Let me go, Lucien, please.' "
The tip of one finger tangled in the dark curls between her legs, and she
gasped "Letmegolucienplease." Immediately, he pulled his hand away,
released her hands, and propped himself up over her on his elbows, eager to
see her response as he said:
"No. But thank you ever so much for asking so nicely." And he smiled.
Beneath him, Natalie went rigid. *WHAT? That bastard--!* Without any
hesitation, she sat bolt upright, bashing him in the face with her head.
Her own head rang with the impact, but she had the not inconsiderable
satisfaction of hearing him yelp in pain. She twisted away from him and
rolled from the bed to the floor, hitting the ground running.
Natalie darted through the door into a large living room. She saw her
trenchcoat, grabbed it and put it on, covering her body. Something poked
her in the side-- the stake! She yanked it out, at the same time she
spotted the door.
She tried to open it-- *Locked! damn. How do I--?* She could find no way
to undo it. She could hear him in the next room, and she panicked. *Hide,
you idiot!* She spotted a large, high-backed divan and dodged behind it,
stake in hand.
And the lights went out.
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When Natalie head-butted him, he was stunned. For a second, anyway. Then
it just hurt. He was aware of her scrambling off the bed; he made a grab
for her, but missed.
*It was a -joke-! Where's her sense of humour??*
His head cleared quickly, and he took a moment to assess his options. She
would not be able to unlock the door, so she was effectively trapped. He
could try to reason with her, he supposed. Assuming she would listen. Of
course, they were both still in a state of undress. With a little patience,
he could convince her, he was sure.
And, oh, she was very beautiful. And what other woman would have fought him
as she did, with such delicious ferocity, such striking persistence?
*Nicholas, Nicholas, you're a fool. Were you clever enough, you might have
Janette -and- this one.*
He moved quietly to the door, reached one hand out to the light switch,
being very careful-- it wouldn't have surprised him at all to find her
getting ready to hit him, for the third time that night. *Although I'm
beginning to question whether or not she's worth all the trouble. I'm
getting too old for this sort of thing.* He flipped the main light control.
The lights went out.
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LaCroix cautiously looked around the corner of the door. The main room was
dark and still. He knew she was in there, somewhere. *Is she waiting for
me? She's probably still angry. One would think that after all these
years, I would be able to resist 'pushing my luck'.* Hundreds of years'
practice had shown him how to move silently, and he used that knowledge now.
*After all, she might be ready to come after me with a hatchet.*
He moved to the middle of the room. "Natalie? Natalie, I know you must be
there. It was merely a small joke. I had no intention of upsetting you
*this* much."
In her hiding place, Natalie thought, *Yeah, right. Tell it to Nick.
Jerk.* She was pretty much done with being angry, and was thinking more
along the lines of simply finding a way out and home. *Assuming I'm in
Toronto. I guess I could be anywhere.*
"Come now, Natalie, this is rather petty of you." His voice was taking on a
distinct edge of annoyance. "I'm not going to wait for you forever.
Natalie? Dr Lambert??"
She was pleased by his evident irritation. It was a childish sort of
pleasure, but Nat wasn't in one of her better moods. *Maybe if I wait long
enough, the sun'll come up, and I'll have a shot at figuring out how to get
out of here.* It couldn't be far from dawn now, she figured. Hoped. A
glance at a wall clock changed her mind. *Damn! damndamndamn.*
"Natalie-- Dr Lambert!" LaCroix's tone was sharp. "This is simply
ridiculous. Come out at once!"
*Hmmmmph. I don't -think- so, fang-boy. I can outlast you, anytime,=
anyplace.*
There was a long moment of silence. He moved through the darkened rooms
with lethal grace. She could just see him, beautiful in the half-light, as
he passed much closer to the divan than was comfortable.
He continued on into another room. She could hear him muttering to himself.
Looking around, she moved quickly across the room, closer to the door,
slipping behind a lovely tapestry, woven in grey and red. *Maybe I'll get
lucky and he'll open the door -for- me. Well, it could happen!*
In the guest room, LaCroix yanked the closet door open, almost removing it
from the hinges. His temper, already rather frayed, was nearly boiling
over. "Natalie!"
She wasn't there. He snarled, feeling his fangs emerge briefly. *This has
gone just about far enough. Where is that -damned- woman?* He stormed into
the living room again, increasingly furious-- both at his own failure to
find her, and at her refusal to appear and be seduced by him.
"Don't fight me. Don't you dare to fight me," he whispered, his voice harsh
with anger. No response. "Natalie, we can end this now, you know. =
Easily."
*Just hang on*, she told herself. *You can outlast him. Probably. And
even if you can't, if he was going to hurt you, he'd have done it already,
so you're okay. Probably.* She tightened her grip on the sharpened stake
in her hand. Hiding, unable to see him, she was beginning to get more than
a little paranoid. *A little longer. Just be patient.*
She deliberately slowed her thoughts, keeping herself from panicking. *You
can't win that way.* Unconsciously, she held her breath, waiting for him to
pass by her again. Her heartbeat sped up.
And in that one moment, he sensed her.
In a split second, he had torn the tapestry from the wall, exposing her.
Natalie stood there, eyes wide with shock, coat hanging open, stake
forgotten. She thought her heart might stop from sheer fright. *I always
hated it when people snuck up behind me and yelled "Boo!"*, she thought
crazily.
*A stake!?* LaCroix lost his tenuous hold on his temper. "A *stake*???
How dare you? I offer you my hospitality, and this is how you repay me?"
Nat promptly lost her own temper. "Hospitality?? You kidnapped me!"
"--I send you flowers--"
"--oh, right. Does the word 'obsessive' mean anything to you? How about
'stalker'--"
"--I go well out of my way to visit--"
"--Might I point out, you weren't invited--"
"--to visit you at a lovely cabin, and you throw--"
"--You were *not* invited, dammit! Didn't you ever read Emily Post??--"
"--some sort of box at me! How do you think that makes me feel?--"
"Why should I care??"
He reached out and snatched the stake from her hand. "Look at this-- I
can't believe you brought this into my home!" he thundered.
"It was in my coat pocket!" she shouted back.
"Your coat?" he suddenly realised that, technically, *he* had brought it
with him. Changing gears, he said, accusingly, "What was all that in the
bedroom??"
Without answering, Natalie grabbed up what looked like a brass ashtray and
took a pretty darn good shot at hitting him in the head with it. LaCroix
was angry, but not so angry to forget how to duck. He neatly snagged her
legs out from under her. Nat landed on her back with a *whump*, him
straddling her.
"Will you hold *still*, woman!"
For reply, she started to head-butt him again, but he was more or less ready
for it this time, blocking the attempt with his arm.
"Ouch! You split my lip! Let me up!"
"I don't think so, Dr Lambert. I'm not *yet* insane!" he snapped. He was
even more irritated, now; the blood on her mouth was more tempting than it
should be, and his brain was no longer in total control of the situation.
His sex drive and bloodneed were taking over from his common sense. At
least, that was the reason he thought of later, when reviewing his actions.
He kissed her. Her blood was warm and salty, strong with hormones, vivid
with anger. She tensed under him, and he winced, waiting for another
assault. *Here we go again....*
She kissed him back. Hard. Her tongue laced around his, her arms wrapped
around him. LaCroix pulled the coat away from her shoulder, spiraling
kisses along her skin. She arched her back under his hand, pressing tightly
against him, wanting him closer, needing the danger he promised, the harbour
she suspected might be there....
A sudden alarm went off in her head. *This is LaCroix! He's tried to kill
you -and- Nick and he's been stalking you and he went to the cabin and then
he abducted you--
*--and you want him right here right now any way you can have him--*
Her hand closed on the stake. And he moved away from her, and she almost
protested. He was watching her very sternly and coldly.
"Do it."
"What--"
He gestured to the stake. "You want me dead? Then do it. You'll never
have a better chance. Nicholas would thank you for it, would he not?"
"Nick doesn't have anything to do with us--" she began, then cut herself
off, cursing her self-betrayal.
"I see." His voice held no note of triumph. If if had, she might well have
used the stake, and bedamned with him.
But things were different, suddenly. This wasn't Nick's problem, it was
hers. She had to make a decision. She knew she couldn't trust herself with
this man. He appealed to the wildness in her, a need for danger, a source
of menace she longed for in her often-sterile world. A will to power.
LaCroix waited, watching her. *What is this woman to me? A victory over
Nicholas? a sneer at the mortal world? a movement from stability to chaos?
Does it matter? Do I care?*
"I don't want this," she said at last, "I *don't*."
"Then, my heart, use the stake." He tensed, uncertain himself what he would
do if she moved to strike.
The stake clattered on the floor as she threw it aside. The next moment,
she threw *herself* at *him*, beating at him in wordless anger. Gently, he
restrained her.
A step away from tears, or rage, or insanity, she glared up at him. "Don't
you let me fall. Don't, don't you let me--"
He cut her off with a kiss, burning and bruising her already-swollen lips,
the coat falling to the floor, and somehow they find themselves heading for
the bedroom again, locked in each other's arms,
I smell something familiar and new: heavy scent of roses, sharp scent of
arousal, silkpale skin, cool to the touch, warming where you touch, slick
wetness beneath my fingers, my tongue traces your lips, your throat, your
nipples,
*this strange mortal heat-- might one die for it?*
the curls of hair on my chest brush against your skin, my mouth grazes your
stomach,
*no way out of this, now, thank God*
skin to skin, my erection like iron against you, my mouth lower slower
lower, salt-sweet taste of you on my tongue,
*might I die of this?*
lips fasten to the sensitive clitoris, nerve ends firing, you gasp, grasp my
shoulder with your hand, stroke the back of my neck,
"Oh. Oh, please...."
I slip your legs over my shoulders, dislodge your hold on me, you catch a
fold of the sheet in your hand, I drive my tongue into you, and you come,
shatteringfallingshattering against me, glint of gold in the dark, I move up
between your legs suddenly,
*Oh, please. Oh, please.*
our mouths meet, harsh and uncompromising, strength meeting strength, my
fingers tangle in your hair, you reach to cup me in your hand, warming my
cool flesh,
"Natalie...."
--taste of blood from your bruised mouth--
"Forgive me, my heart."
"Always, always. Hurry. Please, hurry."
and I do, burying my cold, hard cock in your heat without warning, you cry
out in pain, in want, I take you fiercely, even, yes, brutally,
[later I find bruises on my hips where he clasps me now]
driving into you, power buried in power, need sheathing need, you twine your
legs with mine, locking me against you, you find my rhythm, raising your
hips to pull me deeper, I bury my face in your shoulder,
*might I die for lack of you?*
with shocking force, you come, your low, wordless cries adding to my own
arousal, I fuck you harder, now, and faster, the fragrance of roses and your
sex almost overwhelming, seize your wrist in my hand, letting the weight of
my body press upon you, making you come again, mortal-dark eyes meeting
vampire-gold, you do not say yes, only moan and press your wrist to my lips,
and that is all the answer I need, I bury my fangs deep in the vein,
[stabbing pain, the feel of his mouth, he is taking me into his body as I
take him,]
heat power blood light
"Lucien-- lucien-- lucien-- lucien--"
I feel your muscles contract around me, I pull away from your wrist, blood
scent and rose scent mingle, I let you bring me home, my name on your lips,
and come,
[so cold inside me, icy needles of rain]
growling low in my chest in primal pleasure, my cock sheathed completely
within you,
*natalie.... i might die for lack of you*
"Lucien. Oh."
Natalie was shaking, aftershocks rippling along her nerve ends. Lucien
wrapped his arms around her, rolling onto his back with one smooth movement.
She sprawled on his chest, hands folded at the back of his neck. As they
lay together, his cock softened, slipping from her clasp. She moaned in
languid protest, shifting until she lay snugly between his legs, her head
cradled on his shoulder. Lucien pinned her to him fiercely, raising her
torn wrist to his mouth in mute apology, kissing her fingers.
"Go to sleep, Natalie. It will be dawn soon."
Even if she had wanted to sleep, her body had no remaining resources on
which to draw. She drifted off to sleep, secure in his embrace, her arm
around his waist protectively.
Lucien lay awake thinking until sunrise. His last coherent thought was
*Natalie, what are you to me?*
=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=
=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=
=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D
The next night, Natalie stood at the door of the cabin, once more in camo
gear, looking at LaCroix. He, as usual, wore black clothes and an
unreadable expression. She had slung her bag onto the Harley, and was ready
to head home.
"So," she said, feeling all the awkwardness of the situation.
He said nothing, simply looking at her. They had woken at about the same
time, a few hours to sunset. They had showered in silence. He had brought
her back, her eyes shut tightly all the way.
"So, what now? What do we do now?" she demanded.
"I don't think Nicholas needs to know about this," he replied, after a very
long silence, during which he never turned his eyes from her.
"I agree with that," she said quickly. *Okay, so this is it. What did you
expect? Get over it.*
"Yes, of course," he said, distracted. *Let her go. It's the only sane
thing to do. Let her leave. Natalie....*
She turned away from him, checked to make sure the door was locked. She
shoved her coat in her bag, not wanting it to get in her way, and put on her
sunglasses. "So," she repeated, hoping for inspiration.
He turned his head to the side. "Interesting look."
Startled, she looked back at him. He was smiling faintly. "Thanks. I like
it." *Okay, Nat, get it over with.* "I'm heading out now. Good-bye."
He nodded.
Natalie straddled the Harley, began to start it up.
"Natalie?"
She glanced back over her shoulder at him.
"Will you 'give me a lift' back to the city?" he asked, a little awkward
with the slang phrase. He meant more than that, she realised.
*Do I really need -two- vampires in my life? Isn't that kind of greedy?*
She thought of his sarcasm, his strangeness, his strength, and smiled, a
quiet smile of her own.
"Hop on. Watch your legs, the pipes get hot."
He mounted the bike behind her, his arm firmly around her waist.
"Dr Lambert, just what *are* we going to do?" he questioned.
"I don't know," she answered, "but I'd be willing to bet we figure something
out. Hold on."
And they roared off into the autumn night.
END
[The poem LaCroix read is Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art", by the way.]
/////-----/////-----/////-----/////-----/////-----/////-----/////
"I've never known someone as desperate for tenderness as you appear."
Mina, "Nosferatu"
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/zoewolfson/val
geocities.com/zoewolfson(to report bad content: archivehelp @ gmail)
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